The Rescue
by Mondie
Summary: Leslie has always been able to see ghosts. But she's never been forced into a spectral web quite like this one. (slash, violence, swearing)


The Rescue

by Mondie

Started: February 18, 2004

Disclaimer: newsies=disney's.

Leslie gazed up at the rickety, abandoned building in awe. It had been condemned thirty years before, but hadn't been used in many decades more. The last residents she had been able to trace to were there in the 1920s, and the family had moved out after one night because of what they termed "evil in the air.

This was what Leslie lived for.

It had taken years to get the city to agree to let her within the building, and months to get the proper permits. Yet here she stood now, the correct papers tucked firmly in the waistband of her tight, thick pants. She wore a surgeon's mask to protect her from the decades' collection of dust, and special glasses to shield her eyes. Almost all of her skin was covered, just in case, and her hair was pulled back and tucked into a ski cap. All of her layers made her extremely warm and uncomfortable, but it was worth it.

She was allowed in.

The fire marshal had opened the door for her, prying away rusty nails and rotting boards, and was staring at her, shaking his head. "You sure you wanna go in there?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "I hear it's haunted as all else.

"That's what I'm hoping for," she answered, smiling at him. She shook his hand and pulled on her right glove, then wandered through the door, shutting it behind her. She gave a shake of her head, and beamed.

Since she'd been five years old and first moved to New York City, she'd been enthralled with this building. Leslie had always been able to detect certain disturbances where other people couldn't; her mother fondly told the story of when she'd first proclaimed that she could see ghosts, at age three. And this building was so full of angry energy that she'd always dreamed of going inside.

Despite her smile and joy at finally being inside, she felt the hairs on her arms and neck rise against the dense cloth of her shirt. The spirits were swarming around, pressing at her with a force she could feel. They hadn't liked being shut in, without humans to tell their tales to.

She forced herself forward. The late afternoon sunshine spilled through a small window, and her steps were muffled on the hardwood floor by the inches of dust. A grand desk stood to the left, and she stepped to it, extending a hand to the polished wood. The dust slid off in a line following her fingertip, and Leslie was unable to resist the childish urge to scribble her name in fancy cursive upon the desk's surface. L-E-S-L-I-E. The wood underneath shone in the way that only newly-discovered gems can shine in sunlight. She went behind the desk, and attempted to pull out some of the drawers; they were stuck shut. Sighing, Leslie gave up after a few minutes. She might try later that night if she could find nothing better to do.

She could sense something directly to her left, and turned sharply; just as she had expected, though, she could see nothing. It was a common occurrence that Leslie couldn't see the ghosts until night fell.

She looked at everything in this small lobby. She knew from research that this had at one point been a lodging house for homeless newspaper selling boys, and the family who had stayed one night had been the only family to ever live there. They hadn't even moved out the old lodging house furniture, and all was perfectly preserved as it must have been when the newspaper boys had lived there.

There was an antique sofa set back in an alcove. The material had long since been eaten away, but Leslie was sure that it had matched the grandiose of the desk when the lodging house had been in its prime. Behind the counter was an empty bookcase, and a door leading to a small bedroom with a single bedframe, stark and naked, and another small desk, still locked shut by a small, rusty lock. A bookshelf filled an entire wall, but only a few small knickknacks remained between about five thick, disintegrating books. One of the little figures was handmade, whittled and painted wood, a small plaque. Leslie picked it up, dusting it with her gloved fingers. It had "Happy Birthday Kloppman!" in haggard, freehandedly carved letters, then a painted smiley face, and beneath it, "from Mush".

She kept a firm hold on the small piece of wood, hesitantly leaving the little room. It was peaceful in there, exempt from the rushing, angry spirits. There was a hallway leading away, and she figured that it was probably leading to a washroom, maybe a small dining hall and kitchen.

There would be time to explore those later.

She wanted to go upstairs before the sun went down, in case it wasn't stable and she had to call for help. The stairs were a death trap. She tested her strength on each creaky, rotting board. Only two splintered under her weight, and she was concentrating so hard on the task that it seemed to take no time before she reached the top landing. There were only two doors leading off the landing. She opened the first, and found herself in a large, long room, filled with barracks. The bunks were separated by small cupboards, sitting squatly on the ground, like angry old men. She opened a few of them and found a pair of eyeglasses, a few garments protected from time by being locked away from air and sunshine, a pocketwatch, a single boot, and in one cupboard's belly, quite a selection of items, from silverware to cups to suspenders to matches to a silk handkerchief. The drawer of the cupboard contained roughly ten wallets, all empty of anything monetary. The cupboards' contents were virtually maintained in their pristine conditions, and Leslie tucked these items into her bag. She still carried the wooden birthday plaque in her grasp, though. It seemed to offer her serenity, though she was unsure why.

Off the bunkroom was the washroom, where Leslie felt the most intense energy yet. Her nerves were set on end, and while this frightened her a bit, it also caused great excitement to course through her veins. She settled down on the floor, next to a water pump with a wooden washtub, covered in mold, beneath it. The sun began to set, and she took out her flashlight and examined the contents of her bag, the items she'd taken from the bunkroom. Her fingers ran along the creases of the wallets, creases well oiled by the fingers of previous owners. The glasses made her fingers practically tremble with excitement. She examined those best of all, perhaps. Her mind loved the fact that these had been a boy's livelihood, his entire existence. Without these eyeglasses, he couldn't have survived. And she held them in her hand, maybe after a hundred years. An entire century, and they sat in the palm of _her_hand. The sheer electricity from this was nearly detrimental to her health.

She focused so much on these token souvenirs that she didn't notice the slowly fading light until darkness covered her.

She clicked off her flashlight after putting all the trinkets back into her bag. The darkness covered her, though the spirits were louder.

She wasn't left in the dark long.

As her eyes adjusted, a glowing light grew brighter, and a boy stepped forward. He glowed from inside himself. And though Leslie was usually able to sense hostility in the ghosts she met, this one was devoid of wanting to do any harm. She peered up at him, silent. She always made sure the ghosts spoke first, so she didn't startle them.

He walked right up to her, his youthful face tilted. This was a beautiful boy, it was to be sure. He was dressed in loose brown pants and a white shirt. The shirt had a gaping hole slashed into it, and Leslie caught glimpse of a bright red, bloodied torso beneath the shirt. The colors of ghosts were always more intense than normal colors to her, and the skin beneath the fabric shone like high quality rubies directly in sunlight. His head was covered with springing curls, and his creamy, slightly brown-tinged complexion was flawless. Large brown eyes took in her face, her body, her being.

"I'm Mush," he said, his voice intense. He reached forward with his hand, trying to touch her cheek, and she felt the charge of electricity of him.

"My name's Leslie," she told him.

He smiled at her. He still didn't emit anger, just sadness. "Want to meet Blink?

"Of course," Leslie answered, though she hadn't the faintest who, or what, Blink was. She stood up, however, and followed Mush's beautiful glowing form.

A second boy, who appeared about the same age as Mush, was sitting in a stall. He wore an orange shirt and black pants, and had dark pink thumbprints around his throat. He had an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips, and held out his hand to Mush. Mush took it silently, sitting quietly upon the second boy's lap.

"This is Blink," Mush said, and the two boys stared up at Leslie. "Me and Blink ain't right.

"Who's she?" Blink asked Mush, not moving his gaze from Leslie.

"I don't know," Mush answered. "Leslie. I found her.

Blink nodded, falling back into silence.

"How aren't you right?" Leslie asked gently.

Mush and Blink both looked down at their feet. Finally, Blink mumbled, "They killed us. Obviously, we ain't right." Mush's shoulders slumped, and he kissed Blink's forehead.

"Why couldn't they just let us be? We never hurt anyone," he mumbled.

A loud, boisterous voice behind Leslie made her jump. "Say, whaddya doing talking to the queers, huh?" A third boy, wiry in frame and skeptical of people meaning well, peered at her. "They deserved what they got.

Leslie turned back to the stall, but Mush and Blink had disappeared. She knew they'd be back, but, for the moment at least, missed their calm sadness.

"Name's Swifty," the boy continued, his wide smile not quite reaching his cold Asian eyes. "And I killed Blink.

**A/N:**There we go, Kez.


End file.
